


as it blooms

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Complicated Relationships, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 16:25:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3699050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco's problem is that he wants to have his cake and eat it too. (Or, some things are incompatible, but some things aren't)</p>
            </blockquote>





	as it blooms

“Oh my god.” Marco says, eyes transfixed on Auba. Auba's just grinning at him, except he's also trying not to so his face was all twisted up and ridiculous. His eyes were especially large and excited.

“What?” He says, and then he picks up the chicken wing with his fingers.

“We're in a fucking restaurant and you bought your own hot wings.” Marco leans over, trying to shield the plastic container on the table with his arm. He keeps his voice to a low, furious whisper, which was hard, because he really, really wanted to laugh. The pressure of keeping it together, he was sure, was probably contorting his facial features for life.

Auba lets out a chuckle, his mouth curving up on one side. Marco lets his forehead gently hit the table top, avoiding the silverware.

Auba nudges him, and Marco looks up. “Just eat one.”

They did smell good. Their waitress was away on the other side, gesticulating to an older couple. Marco throws up his hands in the air, miming despair, and stabs one with his fork.

“We're going to get thrown out.” Marco says, though his words come out muffled because he was trying to fit the entire wing in to his mouth in one go.

Auba just stares at him, licking sauce off his fingers. “Don't be scared.”

“You,” Marco whispers, pointing at Auba with a chicken bone, “ are a crazy motherfucker.” Auba's looking at his mouth, his eyebrows raised.

“What?” Marco says, self conscious. He glances at the waitress out of the corner of his eye. She was done with the couple, smiling as she tucked her little pen and pad back in to her apron. Marco looks back quickly before she could make eye contact with him and assume they wanted to order. _Goddammit,_ he was always getting pulled along with Auba's crazy schemes.

Auba reaches over and wipes the corner of Marco's mouth with his napkin. His eyes were very brown, this close. Marco looks at him, a little dazed.

“You had something there.” Auba says, lazy, his accent caught on the r's. Marco swallows. He thinks, strangely, of Mario then, a passing thought that flickered out as quickly as it appeared.

Their waitress picks exactly that moment to come over, and Marco shares a panicked look with Auba. _Oh god you bastard,_ Marco thinks in despair, flipping open the menu and scanning the pages. Auba's laughing softly in front of him, flipping a napkin over their plate of wings. His leg presses against Marco's under the table, warm.

Marco's brain fizzles. He picks the first thing on the menu.

 

-

 

 

They go to a club, afterwards, somewhere Marco's familiar with and Auba had never been to before. But of course he fits in perfectly, already joking around with some people, shoulders sloped and easy as he sprawls on a couch. Girls was already leaning close to him, smiling and flipping their hair, bare shoulders glowing in the neon lights. They're wasting their time, Marco knows, not just because Auba's in a relationship, and has a kid. Auba was keeping his distance, polite but engaged, a carefully cultivated space between him and his admirers.

Marco just sips his drink, lets the weird indie music wash over him. A blonde is making eyes at him from across the bar, and Marco shrugs, sets his glass on the table. Their eyes meet briefly, and she looks away, laughs at something her friend says. This was routine, and she was beautiful, in the way that all made up girls looked beautiful under dim lighting, so Marco stretches and gets up.

He passes Auba, slaps him on the back. “Have fun bro.” He mouths above the music.

Auba stops, mid joke, cranes his neck to look up at him. “You leaving already?”

Marco grins at him, flicks his head slightly towards the girl. Auba raises his eyebrows at him, strange twist to his mouth. Marco pats his shoulder again, nonplussed.

He makes his way across the room, slapping backs and shaking hands, feeling oddly empty when he gets there, still musing on the expression on Auba's face. The girl (Victoria, her name was- _Victoria, but call me Vicki)_ was beautiful up close too. Marco stares at her mouth while she talks, until she blushes and leans close to him. Her friends leave, giggling behind their hands. Marco stumbles his way through a conversation with Vicki, skin itching under his jacket. He doesn't look up, telling himself that Auba was doing fine. The night drags on, till finally Vicki sets her empty cup down and looks up at Marco, expectant smile on her face.

Her foundation leaves fragrant powder on Marco's palms when he kisses her in his car, and later she laughs when he fumbles with the condom ( _Well fuck but it's been a while, hasn't it_ ) but she didn't mean anything by it, and she kisses him enough to make up for it.

She's curved to his hands in all the wrong ways, but she falls asleep right after they finish, so Marco counts it as a blessing, stares at the ceiling until sleep falls on him, heavy, and everything slides away.

 

 

-

 

Marco doesn't have trouble falling asleep. This was true most of the time. He stumbles in to bed drunk, with a girl, or completely burned out from exercising. But there are some nights where he's hung up on something, and nothing can flip the switch in his head, and his bed was just too fucking big. This night he drifts in to sleep, hazy, before slamming awake immediately from a dream where he was falling. He switches pillows twice, flips his covers around, kicks his sheets to one side. Then he phones Mario.

Granted, he phones Marcel first, but all he heard was “MARCO-” and then drunken yodeling and club music. Marco sighs, hangs up, scrolls through his contacts, crossing out names mentally. He only barely pauses at Auba's name before scrolling on, and then, with a sense of inevitability, he skips to Mario's number.

He stares at the the screen, wondering if Mario would pick up. He didn't even know if Mario had a game tomorrow, and wonders if this made him a bad friend. He deliberately didn't check, which he knew made him a bad friend.

His thumb was just hovering over the red button when the call goes through. Marco puts the phone to his ear and Mario's voice was so clear it felt like he was right there beside him.

“Marco. Whats up.” Mario says, surprised and drowsy.

“Nothing. Um, I. I miss you, man.” Marco says, arm over his eyes.

“Miss you too bro.” Marco can tell there's a smile in Mario's voice. They switch to Facetime, and Marco switches on the lamp beside his table. They catch up, and it wasn't awkward as Marco anticipated, given the fact that they'd barely talked for half a year. Mario rambles about the eateries in Munich, Ann Kathrin's modeling pursuits, his brother's new dog, and Marco listens, smiling despite himself.

Finally Mario says, “Got to go, I have practice early.” and Marco says, “Yeah. Okay.” And they don't hang up, just look at each other through the pixelated screen. Marco was afraid to blink and miss something.

Mario says, finally, small grin on his face, “I miss you. See you in a month.” And Marco knows exactly what he means by that, stomach tensing.

Later he's jerking off, biting the inside of his own hand, trying to stifle his moans, thinking about the way Mario had said the most mundane things and how pathetically turned on he was by them. He comes with the echos of Mario's last words in his head, an image of Mario's mouth burned in to his brain.

 

-

 

“You don't have to do that.” Auba says one day when they're both semi naked, freshly showered after training. Marco stops midway between pulling his shirt on and says, “What?”

“Pick up girls.” Auba says. He's sliding in to his shorts. Mats passes by, a towel slung low across his hips, flip flops squeaking. He snaps his towel at Marco's exposed waist, and Marco jumps, swears at him.

Mats high fives Auba, both grinning.

“Asshole.” Marco says, sticking his arms through his shirt and pulling it down.

“I can't hear you.” Mats says, turning away with his hand to his ear, “Hate a little louder.”

Marco stares after him in disbelief, ignoring Auba's giggles and Shinji saying “ _Ohhh_. Bro you got owned.” Marco squirts them with his bottle without looking, and their surprised yelps almost made up for it.

He forgets that they were having a conversation till they were both dressed and crossing the car park.

“What did you mean?” Marco says, a hand on his car door. Auba just shrugs.

“You don't have to pick up girls, if you're not interested.” He says, then, “Want to get dinner again this thursday?”

“I am interested.” Marco says, feeling like he'd lost the thread of the conversation. Auba gives him a look like Marco had just said he wants to sign for Barcelona next season,and slides in to his car.

Marco texts him later, just three words ( _ok but where?)_ and Auba replies with three flame emojis and _My place._

 

-

Marco's a wired ball of tension when thursday rolls around. He changes shirts four times, staring at his own reflection in the mirror with dissatisfaction until he finally gives up and throws on a BVB hoodie.

He shouldn't have worried, because hanging out with Auba was easy, ( _Why shouldn't it be?_ A small voice in Marco's head speaks up, _You've literally done this too many times to count)._ They end up heating up stuff that Auba's girlfriend made and left in the fridge, Marco looking on in faint jealousy at Auba's well stocked pantry. His own was a mess and contained only six packs of beer and apples.

Auba laughs at him when Marco tells him this, shaking his head like Marco was a ridiculous excuse for a human being instead of just a normal 25 year guy.

Whatever Auba's girlfriend made was insanely good, even when its been frozen and heated up, and then they end up sprawled in Auba's living room, playing FIFA.

Marco wasn't amazing at FIFA, but to his dawning delight, he's better at it than Auba. Auba was swearing, probably sweating now, his thumbs moving awkwardly over the controller. Marco's in the zone, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth as he mechanically tackles himself on screen with Xavi, passes to Neymar, who crosses to Messi, who dodges past Mats and shoots.

Auba groans. Marco points two fingers at the ceiling, smirks at Auba.

Auba chucks his controller somewhere and stumbles over to Marco. Before Marco could defend himself, Auba's pinching his sides, hands hard and sudden. Marco muffles his yelp in to the couch cushion, and curls up, kicking out at him.

“You- You _fucking sore loser.”_ Marco says, or he would say, but he was laughing so hard he couldn't really breath.

Auba's kind of relentless, and Marco ends up dangling off the couch, half laughing and half groaning. He's hanging upside down, blood rushing to his head and getting dizzier by the second when Auba slides off the couch to sit on the floor. Marco cringes away, giggling weakly, saying, “Bro. Stop. I'm going to die-”. Auba leans in and kisses him, quick and hard.

Marco freezes. He scrambles upright, stares at Auba, who's not saying anything at all.

“So?” Auba says, finally.

“Fuck.” Marco says, and pulls him close by his collar.

It doesn't last long enough, Auba's hot mouth under his, tongue pliant and Marco's losing his fucking mind, rubbing up against Auba's hand when he finally remembers and breaks off with a groan.

Auba says, “What? Whats wrong?” Marco has both hands over his face. Auba reaches across, tugs at his arm gently.

Marco flops back down on the couch. “I just. I need to tell you something.”

 

-

They get drunk, because Marco can't do emotional things sober. It also means that neither of them were getting laid that night, some unspoken agreement between them made when Auba hands Marco a beer from the fridge. Marco runs his finger around the perspiration on his bottle. He tells Auba about Mario, and Auba just listens.

Finally Auba says, “So Mario's your long distance boyfriend?”

“No! No. I'm not-” Marco waves his hands. Auba snorts. “We just fuck sometimes. Most of the time. But its not like I give him flowers on Valentines day.”

“You buy him chocolates.” Auba deadpans.

“Yeah. He loves chocolates. It's kind of a wonder that he's in shape enough to be a footballer.” Marco agrees, and then he groans again, realizing what he'd said, and digs the heels of his hands in to his eyes.

Auba laughs, pats his face blindly, without looking. His hand slams against Marco's nose and his mouth, and Marco bats weakly at Auba's arm.

“Stop.” Marco says, turning to face him. Auba's giggling at him, dumb laugh on his face. Marco stares, entranced by his mouth. Auba had really white teeth. Crooked, but Marco's fixated on the luscious curve of his bottom lip.

“So we can't fuck because you're not really in a relationship with Gotze.” Auba says slowly.

“Right.” Marco says. “That sounds so stupid. God I'm-”

Auba stares at him, half smirking. “Reus. Reus.” he puts his hand on Marco's shoulder. “Calm down.”

Marco wants to kiss him badly, girlfriend and child be damned. Mario Gotze be damned. He shakes his head.

“You should talk to him.” Auba says, serious. He's blinking very slowly, which means he's probably drunk off his ass and won't be able to remember anything about this conversation in the morning. Marco's pathetically grateful.

“Go to sleep. I'll just go... to the other room.” Marco says instead, summons up his last ounce of will and propels himself out of Auba's bed. Auba doesn't say anything, and when Marco turns around before clicking the lights off, Auba was already clutching a pillow, fast asleep.

 

 

-

 

He doesn't end up talking to Mario about anything. Theres precisely two hundred and ninety six miles separating Dortmund from Munich, which is barely anything when its two points on a map. What it was, in more quantifiable terms, was – longer times between texts. Shorter calls. It was easier to say _I'm just busy,_ instead of _I'm avoiding talking to my best friend about an intricate personal issue,_ and Marco uses the fact to his full advantage.

 

What was harder was hanging out with Auba. Auba doesn't treat him like anything's changed between them, still teases him mercilessly and drags him in to his slightly suicidal pranks on Mats, still invites him over for dinner. Marco's fine with all of it, tries not to let his eyes linger on the flat plane of Auba's stomach in the locker room. Tries to avoid Auba as much as possible, in fact.

Except when it comes to the next match- and he scores, the crazy bastard, from a perfect Reus to Aubameyang assist and Marco feels something in him catch fire from seeing how _beautiful_ Auba was. How beautiful they were together, quick and merciless, tearing apart the opposition defense like a kid ripping rice paper. Auba pulls him in, looking straight in to his eyes, their hips flush together, and it doesn't matter that half the team were jumping on them, that Mats was screaming in to his ear. For a moment, Marco can envision it clearly, leaning in through the half breath of space between them- Auba's mouth against his own. It'd taste like victory.

Marco thinks, _Oh._

 

_-_

 

“So, um,” Marco says. He's standing on Auba's porch. He stops, scratches at the back of his head, and then takes his other hand out of his hoodie pocket. “Still up for it?”

Auba stares at the condom packet in Marco's hand, then closes the door. Marco just stands there, frozen, thinking, _oh god I guess not,_ and _how am I going to tell Kloppo his new attacking plan is not going to work because I propositioned Aubameyang._ Auba pulls the door open again, a hand to his mouth. He looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

“Reus.” He says, shaking his head, and then he grabs Marco by the back of his neck and pulls him inside.

Auba presses him against the door, and Marco is trembling with it, the want spilling out of him like the gasps he can't control as Auba strips off his hoodie, and then his shirt.

They do make it to the bedroom, although by that time Marco's moaning because Auba's hand was on him already, rough and perfect.

“Come on come on I-” Marco says, tripping over himself, wanting to feel Auba inside him already. Auba grins at him, something feral in his eyes, pushes him back on the bed with two hands.

And then he's slicking fingers in Marco, and Marco tries to pretend it isn't his mouth making those sounds. His vision fades out for a minute when Auba takes his fingers away, Marco half voicing a complaint before he feels Auba's cock against him, and then he's just struggling to form coherent words.

“Fuck I'm not- I'm not _breakable_ come on Aubameyang.” Marco says, gritting his teeth. He wanted Auba to hurry up, the inexplicable slow burn of his cock already driving him out of it. Auba, conversely, stops. He pushes a hand across Marco's face, brushing his hair out of his eyes. Marco looks up at him, says, “What?”

Auba's eyes go oddly soft, but he doesn't say anything. He just carries on, slow, until Marco's moaning and cursing him in all the languages he knows. Marco's hands are twisting the sheets and he's so hard it hurts.

“Fucking dirty mouth you have, Reus.” Auba mumbles in to his neck, grinning, and kisses him, rough.

“Come on then, you cunt. Give it to me you know I can- I can take it.” Marco's beyond the boundaries of shame, or whatever. He stares at Auba, hoping he comes across serious, or as serious as someone can be with someone else's cock in them.

Auba just says, “I know. You're not fragile, Reus. I know.”

“Then fucking come _on.”_ Marco says, hitches himself up and cants his hips. Auba buries a moan in his neck. He's finally speeding up, swearing in french like he can't remember english words anymore and Marco has to close his eyes, grips Auba's shoulders with his hands. Auba's got a hand on Marco, and he's jerking him off, hands sloppy and not in the right rhythm, but Marco's so far gone that he comes anyway. Auba follows soon, hips stuttering.

 

He flops down beside Marco, pats Marco's abs weakly like _well done, bro._ He leaves his hand there, warm. Marco laughs, breathless. He puts a hand over Auba's, meaning to push him off, but it was nice to just lie there. Any minute now, he was going to get off the bed and get cleaned up. Any minute now, but meanwhile he lets Auba trace absent little circles on his ribs with his thumb.

“So whatever happens.” Auba says drowsily. His fingers were very warm. “We're friends. Whatever happens.” Marco nods, realizes they were in the dark, and says, “Yeah.”

Auba punches him on the shoulder, laughing. Marco catches himself smiling stupidly at the ceiling, glad of the darkness, glad that, for once, his bed didn't seem so cavernous.

 

 

-

Fucking around with Auba turns out to be the second easiest and most comfortable thing they do together. The first being football. It's not like BVB was going to sink under the relegation zone again, not with Aubameyang and Reus, Batman and Robin, the heroes Dortmund needs and deserves firing goals in every match.

Of course, the Euro qualifiers loomed up, and Marco's plan of avoiding Mario forever were foiled by the fact that he couldn't avoid Mario forever.

 

International break was strange. For one, he got to speak German with everyone, meet up with Andre and Mesut and Sami. He's not conscious of the divide that the World Cup had put between them, except when he is. Like when Mats brings up a hilarious joke that had happened amongst them at the party after the final, and everyone laughing uproariously around him, and all of a sudden he's shut out, as clearly as if he wasn't there.

What _he_ remembered of the world cup was turning off the television after people started running on to the pitch to celebrate. Crawling in to bed with an entire minibar of alcohol. He'd woken up with a hangover, a different kind of hangover from what the others were having probably, feeling sick and wretched and drowning in self pity, to people texting him Mario holding his jersey and smiling so wide his cheeks were all bunched up.

Marco had stared at the image of his jersey in Mario's hand till it was burned in to his retinas. He'd blinked hard, the screen blurring, swiping angrily at his eyes.

“Fuck.” He'd said to the ceiling, the empty hotel room and the dozen empty bottles littered everywhere. “Fuck.” He couldn't even hate Mario, even though he desperately wished he could. 

Then he'd texted Marcel, something along the lines of _Up for trip to Ibiza? On me._

 

_-_

 

Marco doesn't feel _bruised,_ exactly. Or maybe he is, he couldn't tell, not really. Just the weird, hollow-empty-ache that clings to his stomach and the brief current of paralyzing fear every time he hits the ground from a tackle.

He shrugs it off, because thats what he's does. It's what he is, the part that clings on to football like a life line.

“I'm nothing without football.” He'd said to his mother, when he was just a kid, leaning over her to steal a piece of pepper from her chopping board. He thinks he might have meant it, because there really was no future he could envision that didn't involve him with a ball at his feet. What would he be? A college drop out? A nightclub bouncer?

“Oh Marco.” She'd said. She'd put down her knife and kissed the top of his head, fierce.

It's not like he feels nervous, wearing Miro's number on his jersey, feeling the weight of a nation's expectations. He doesn't think his legs aren't strong enough, or his resolve isn't. It's just- he's terrified, from time to time, of the way that the tide could turn without a moment's notice, and of that instant before pain sets in in his leg and he's falling, panicked, the pitch hurtling up towards him.

 

It doesn't happen this time, so. Instead the ball is at his feet, Mario's quick pass to him foiling the defenders, and Marco just breathes, sends the ball easily in to the back of the net.

He turns around, smiling, and Mario's there, so genuinely happy for him that Marco can't even look him in the face. Instead he just opens his arm and feels Mario's solid weight against him, closes his eyes briefly.

Just like old times.

 

 

-

Later Mario knocks on his hotel door, smirking. He's holding a bottle of champagne, which he props carelessly by the TV when he comes in.

“So.” Mario says, sitting by him on the hotel bed.

Marco leans back on his hands and raises his eyebrows. “So?”

“Congrats, Marco.” Mario says, laughing a little, and he leans in, close. Marco closes his eyes automatically, hand reaching out to cup the back of Mario's neck.

“I'm. I'm sleeping with Auba.” Marco says when Mario breaks away.

Mario's hand stills on his shirt. “Oh?” he says, his voice unsure.

Marco didn't know how to look him in the eye. It felt like he'd broken their unspoken code. That there are things they just don't talk about, except, with Auba, with whom it'd been so easy to just talk about everything, even sex, that it'd just. Marco wanted to smack himself, but it was too late. Mario had taken his hands away, and Marco misses their warmth, suddenly. He reaches out, puts a hand on Mario's knee, for lack of other places to. Mario doesn't push him away, which Marco takes as a good sign.

“I mean. I can stop.” Marco says, inanely. “I missed you- like, God of course I missed you I tell you that every time we Facetime right- but we don't see each other that often and-”

Mario's shaking his head. Marco can't tell his expression, which also worries him. Did he really let things fall apart between them to the extent that he couldn't tell what Mario's expressions mean anymore? His stomach feels strange, hollowed out.

“Marco.” Mario says, and then leans their foreheads together. “Its okay.”

Marco stops talking, his heart feeling like he'd just run a marathon. “Okay.” He pauses, then drags their mouths together.

Mario hums, slides his warm hands back under Marco's shirt. A moment later and he leans back, grinning, that mischievous grin that still makes Marco weak at the knees.

“Lets go get some food.” Mario says.

 

-

 

Mario's definition of getting food was not like other people's. It didn't involve sensibly stealing things from the hotel kitchen, or buying two packs of Doritos from the corner store. It involved trekking through about forty streets to a shady mediterranean diner that sold “Really good gyros oh my god Reus you don't understand people _love_ this place”

“This place” looked like it'd fail the most basic sanitary test. Marco looks on in faint horror as the swarthy man behind the counter slapped his gyro together with his bare hands.

It was worth it to hear Mario's little moans of happiness, which were verging on pornographic. Marco ate his fast, trying not to taste anything. He looks across at Mario, wishing with a sort of desperate and hysterical intensity that he'd just stop loving him. That the sight of Mario halfway through his gyro with sauce on his nose, would make him feel absolutely nothing. It didn't happen. Marco scrunches up the foil paper that contained his gyro in to a ball and throws it at Mario.

Mario shoves him. He doesn't stop wolfing down his gyro at the same time, which was impressive.

“Are you really good with it?” Marco asks, awkwardly. Mario frowns, wipes his hands on the napkins.

Marco feels the food in his stomach shift around, suddenly nauseous.

“What do you want me to say?” Mario says, looking at him. “I'm totally okay and not jealous that you're banging your team mate slash new best friend in Dortmund while I'm here on my lonesome?”

Marco puts his hand up in a warding off gesture, about to protest, but Mario carries on, “I'm not. I wouldn't be honest if I told you I were. But-” He stops, thoughtful. Marco thinks about how strange that expression looks on his young, normally cheerful face. “You need it, Marco. You need him.”

“Well.” Marco says, “Thats- debatable.”

“Don't give me that, Reus.” Mario says. They grin at each other, except Marco feels something shift between them, some miniscule change in their relationship he couldn't even put his thumb on.

“I left Dortmund.” Mario says, oddly serious now.

“I understood why.” Marco says back, feeling like this was a precarious game to play when they're sitting by the corner shop of a greasy gyro, crackling heat on their backs and the smell of cooking meat enveloping them.

“It doesn't change the fact that I did, Marco.” Mario says, getting up, “Come on. Time to get home.”

“Home.” Marco repeats, something off in his cadence. He was about to say, “The hotel-” but Mario body checks him so he stumbles off the pavement, almost denting the rearview mirrors of two cars. Marco swears at him, but Mario's laughing so hard his nose is scrunched, perfect eyebrows arched up in amusement.

 

 

 

-

 

They go back to Mario room because it was closer. Marco's already half hard by the time Mario turns to him, smirk on his face, already undoing his belt.

Mario sucks him off in the shower, the spray turned up to drown out Marco's obscene moans and loud swearing. He tangles his hand in Mario's wet hair, fixated on the way Mario looks up at him, water on his eyelashes, lips stretched around Marco's cock.

Then they fuck on every available surface in the hotel room, Mario's fingers leaving bruises on Marco's hips, the tv remote digging in to Marco's knees as he leans down to bite the skin low on Mario's back.

“Marco.” Mario says after they're lying shoulder to shoulder, both too exhausted to come again. Just one word, his voice sated and drowsy.

“Hm?” Marco says, turning to look at him, but Mario was already asleep, mouth half open. Marco laughs to himself, feeling something soft in his chest. Of course the bastard falls asleep first. It was probably going to be a thing with everyone he ever sleeps with.

Mario had a world cup winning goal, a world cup trophy, and Pep Guardiola. Marco had Mario, Auba, fickle health and a team that was facing relegation a couple months ago. The scales were never going to fall even. Mario probably knew this, but then again, nobody was to blame. Marco had thought about it, before, lying on the floor in a hotel alone and drunk, and then after, hobbling through physical therapy. He wanted some sort of end to this so he can start again, except he was also fucking terrified that it was an end. That there was no point in starting. He wanted to hate Mario for being Mario, infinitely optimistic, generous, ambitious. He loved Mario. He wasn't Mario.

He touches Mario's shoulder, strangely unconvinced that he was there. Mario lets out a snore and rolls over, burying his face in Marco's neck.

Marco stares at the ceiling, but his head's quiet and that tenderness in his chest doesn't fade, and he doesn't have long to wait before he's asleep.

 

-

 

Marco wakes up in the morning as Mario hurries around his hotel room, throwing things in to his suitcase. He's grumbling, still shirtless as he packs all his hair care products in to a clear plastic bag. Marco smiles despite himself, stretching out full length on the bed. Mario throws a shirt at him, complaining, “Where's _my_ shirt? Why don't I have a clean shirt? I thought laundry was included in our service-”

“Just take mine.” Marco says, head buried in a pillow. Mario shrugs and slides on Marco's, checks his reflection in the mirror one last time, and puts a hand on Marco's back. He keeps it there longer than Marco expected, so Marco twists around, bleary eyed, to look at him.

Mario smiles, looking both young and unfairly handsome for that hour of the morning, and leans in to kiss him, ignoring Marco's mumble complaint and his morning breath. His mouth tastes like mint toothpaste. Then he's gone, the door softly clicking shut behind him.

Marco wakes up again at noon, groping for his phone on the dressing table. Instead his hand finds a lollipop. He picks it up, and there was a piece of paper underneath, looking like it'd been torn out of the hotel phone book.

He stares at it. Mario's handwriting, _Hey dumbass, see you next match._ Then crammed tight because he'd ran out of space, _loveu._

Marco smiles at the ceiling, unwraps the sweet and sticks it in his mouth.

 

-

 

He texts Auba while waiting in the hotel lobby for Mats to come down. It wasn't anything too complicated, just his three favorite emojis.

Auba's reply was instantaneous, as though he'd been waiting for it. 

_Coming around later._ Plus a flame, a smiley with shades on, and a wink face.

Marco crunches the lollipop in one go, sour sweet taste flooding his mouth, and he's grinning so hard that Mats, hurrying up and saying “Sorry I just forgot-” stops and stares at him, bemused. 

**Author's Note:**

> ahem, ////hannah montana voice, u get the beeeest of both worldssssss (because Marco Reus deserves it amirite) 
> 
> This was supposed to be something fun and lighthearted, but then halfway through I gave a long, emotional and embarrassing rant to my friend irl about Marco Reus (“He's just! So fearless! I realize he's a 25 year old basic white guy but he's so! Such a talented footballer ohgodwhycouldntheplayintheworldcup”) and then I realized I was in too deep. Still not convinced that their relationship(s?) worked, but eh, I tried. i can't..believe..this is as long as it is....
> 
> //waves weakly comments appreciated <3


End file.
